Mumbo Gumbo Murder

by Laura Childs

  Carmela saw Babcock’s jaw tighten and feared for a moment she’d gone too far, pushed him too hard.

  “I mean . . . I couldn’t help but overhear . . .”

  Babcock seemed to relax then. “There was some sort of forensic evidence found on Devon Dowling—a type of plant matter, possibly native to one of the bayous.”

  “Do you know what kind of plant?”

  Babcock sighed deeply, as if it was all too much for him. Or maybe he just hadn’t eaten lunch yet. Carmela knew that when Babcock got super busy, when he was digging into a case, running hard, he forgot to eat and his blood sugar level dropped.

  “The plant material . . . I don’t know. The crime techs are working on that right now.” Babcock gave a faint smile then leaned over and gave Carmela a quick peck on the cheek. Two seconds later he was gone.

  * * *

  * * *

  “Well?” Gabby was back behind the front counter, clutching a bunch of brown kraft envelopes in her hands. “What did Babcock say about the wine bar? About Quigg?”

  “Quigg? I never mentioned Quigg,” Carmela said.

  Gabby blinked rapidly. “Wha . . . you never? Carmela, you’re going to have to spill the beans sooner or later that Quigg is our new next-door neighbor. Even if we don’t wind up teaching classes at the Drink and Drizzle—or whatever he decides to call it—and even if you don’t actually work with Quigg, he’s going to be around. All the time.”

  Carmela pushed back a chunk of her choppy blond hair. “I know. And I’m working on that aspect of it.”

  “You better work harder, girlfriend.”

  “I am. I will.” Carmela shrugged. “Can we please change the subject? Don’t we have other things to worry about?”

  “We’ve got that greeting card workshop scheduled for tomorrow.”

  “And I’m looking forward to it,” Carmela said. “Though I haven’t had time to give it a single, solitary thought.”

  “Luckily, I have,” Gabby said. She picked up a card from the front counter. “I worked on this earlier. See?” She handed the card to Carmela.

  “I love this heavy vellum,” Carmela said, turning the card over in her hands.

  “From that new supplier over in Belle Chasse.”

  “And your design is terrific,” Carmela said. Gabby had used a pearl gray cardstock and rubber stamped a design of three hot-air balloons on the front. But what was really spectacular was that she’d used a multicolored ink pad to get a lovely pastel rainbow effect. Then, using letter stencils, she’d added the words YOU’RE INVITED.

  “Since I’m forever getting e-invitations from zillions of charities that want Stuart and me to attend their fund-raisers and soirees, I thought we could gently encourage the creation of handmade invitations. You know how swiftly they’re fading from our collective use.”

  Gabby’s husband, Stuart Mercer-Morris, owned several car dealerships and was generally known as the Toyota King of New Orleans. This made him extremely popular with the charity and society set.

  “That’s a genius idea,” Carmela said, trying to stifle a yawn.

  “Whoops, somebody’s having a midday slump,” Gabby said.

  “I guess I am.”

  “Time for a coffee run,” Gabby said. She glanced at Mimi. “And Miss Mimi, you can come with me and stretch those cute little legs of yours.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Carmela went back to her stack of invoices, secretly hoping that Gabby might return with a couple of beignets as well. Just as she initialed the final invoice, ready to turn the whole pile over to her bookkeeper, there was a bump and a loud knock at the front door.

  “What?” Carmela said as the door flew open and whacked hard against the wall.

  Peter Jarreau, media liaison for the NOPD, paused in her doorway. He looked hesitant and disheveled, his suit just a tad too large for his skinny frame. His eyes swept the room anxiously while the sweet, sticky aroma of his cologne nearly knocked Carmela flat.

  “Is he here?” Jarreau asked.

  “Is who here?” Carmela asked. She knew he was looking for Babcock, but there was something about Jarreau’s manner that irritated her.

  “Babcock.”

  “You just missed him.”

  Jarreau stared at Carmela for a moment, as if trying to comprehend what she’d just said.

  Carmela tried again, speaking slowly and enunciating carefully as if to a child.

  “Babcock is not here. You’d better try him on his cell.”

  Jarreau nodded. “Ah. Okay.” He seemed to relax then. “I’m sorry you got pulled into that mess last night. Babcock told me you and Dowling had been friends.”

  Carmela blinked hard, trying to keep the tears from flowing. “It’s never easy to lose a friend.”

  “Well, sorry to disturb.” Jarreau tipped an imaginary hat and was gone.

  “Whew,” Gabby said when she came back some ten minutes later, leading Mimi and carrying two large coffees in paper cups. She wrinkled her nose. “What is that . . . ungodly smell?”

  “Peter Jarreau stopped by. He was looking for Babcock.”

  “Oh, the Cologne Ranger. Of course.”

  “How’d you know we call him that?”

  Gabby gave a mischievous grin. “Ava told me.”

  * * *

  * * *

  At five o’clock, Gabby clicked the lock on the front door.

  “If you’re staying late, be sure to keep the door locked,” Gabby said. “You never can tell what’s going to happen. Some crazy person could be targeting French Quarter shop owners.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Carmela said. “I’m going to put Mimi in my car out back and then run back in and double-check everything.”

  “Okay, I’m just going to pack up and grab the outgoing mail.”

  Carmela scooped up Mimi along with a couple of Somerset Studio magazines and put them in her car.

  “You sit tight,” she told Mimi. “I’ll be back in a flash.”

  But when Carmela went back inside, Gabby was standing at the front door, gazing at a handsome man with two delicious streaks of gray in his well-coiffed dark hair. The man was peering through the glass at her.

  “I’m sorry, we’re closed,” Gabby said through the closed door.

  The man nodded and smiled, then pressed a business card up against the glass. It was a thick, cream-colored card with raised black type that read RICHARD DRAKE, PRESIDENT. Underneath were the words VAMPIRE SOCIETY.

  “I’ll handle this,” Carmela said. She looked at his card and said, “You’re kidding, right?” And to herself, This is way too wacky for words.

  The man shook his head. “I need to talk to you about Devon Dowling.”

  Carmela unlatched the door and pulled it halfway open, just far enough so they could converse without yelling at each other. But she kept her foot pressed against the door in case she wanted to close it in a hurry.

  “What’s up?” she asked, curious about this strange but very good-looking visitor. “Mr. Drake, is it?”

  “I understand you were the one who discovered Devon Dowling’s body last night,” Drake said. His hazel eyes bored into her, but they were kind eyes. His cheekbones were pronounced, and his lips carried a sensual curve.

  “That’s right.” Carmela decided this was a man she should be wary of.

  “Your discovering Mr. Dowling was not an accident,” Drake continued. “I understand that you and he were good friends.”

  When Carmela remained silent (and puzzled), Drake tried again.

  “I was wondering if your friendship was casual or if you were a confidante of Mr. Dowling’s, a trusted friend. Someone he might share his thoughts with?”

  “Why, exactly, are you asking me these questions?” Carmela was aware of Gabby hovering in the background.

 
Drake seemed to waft closer to her, as if pushed along on a slow evening breeze.

  “Because my cohorts and I believe that Mr. Dowling possessed something extremely important. More important than anyone could ever imagine.”

  “What exactly are you talking about?” Carmela asked. She wondered if he was inquiring about some precious antique. Had an extremely pricey piece also been stolen from Devon’s shop?

  “It’s something we all want very badly,” Drake continued.

  Carmela stared at him as if trying to decipher his words—and his bizarre performance. “I’m sorry, but you’re talking in circles. You’re going to have to do a lot better than that. Just spit it out, okay?”

  “Yes, of course.” Drake licked his lips and leaned in close. “There’s a strong rumor that Mr. Dowling had somehow come to possess a small piece of Lincoln’s coat.”

  “Lincoln,” Carmela said. What exactly was this fine-looking man rambling on about? Then her brain finally caught up with the conversation. “Whoa, buddy.” She made a referee’s time-out signal with her hands. “Do you mean Abraham Lincoln? Devon has a piece of his coat?”

  From the back of the shop, Gabby uttered a little shriek.

  “From the coat Lincoln wore the night he was assassinated at Ford’s Theatre,” Drake said.

  Carmela put a hand to her throat as a startling thought rumbled through her brain: Dear Lord, if this story is true, it definitely raises the stakes!

  Chapter 5

  IN the tiny kitchen of her French Quarter apartment, Carmela busily chopped onions and avocado slices. Popping a piece of avocado in her mouth, she glanced through the doorway into the dining room. And smiled with satisfaction at the soft glow of candlelight that came from the elegant white tapers she’d placed on her refinished walnut dining table.

  The rest of her combination dining-living room was just as inviting and cozy. Over the last couple of years, Carmela had given her place the Belle Époque treatment with antique chairs, fringed lamps, and prints in elegant gold frames that hung on her brick walls. She also had a leather chaise lounge, a small fireplace, and a collection of vintage children’s books. A blue and peach Aubusson carpet served as a favorite napping spot for dogs.

  Carmela’s gaze swept past to the wine rack.

  Yes.

  Carmela put down her knife, hurried over to the wine rack, and scanned her collection of bottles. Because she was searing bay scallops and mushrooms in white wine sauce, and both she and Ava preferred drinking a red wine, she decided a rosé would be the perfect complement and compromise. Back in the kitchen, she plunged her bottle of Matthiasson rosé into an ice bucket just as there was a loud knock on the door. Ava. And right on time.

  Poobah immediately bolted for the front door. He was an energetic, shaggy-haired mongrel that Carmela’s ex-husband (Shamus, aka the Weasel) had found wandering the streets and adopted. And Carmela had inherited. Carmela’s chunky little Shar-Pei, Boo, followed languidly after Poobah. Mimi, who was asleep on the Persian carpet, raised one eyelid, not sure what the fuss was about.

  “Boy, am I pooped,” Ava declared as she waltzed in. She dropped her shoulders as if she were a beast of burden tasked with carrying a hundred-pound sack of coal. “If my schlep across that courtyard was any longer, I’d be too worn out for dinner.”

  “It’s a killer,” Carmela agreed. Juju Voodoo, Ava’s quaint little voodoo shop, was a hop, skip, and a jump across their shared courtyard with its palmetto trees and pattering fountain. Ava’s studio apartment, which was festooned in leopard prints and painted Pepto pink, occupied the floor directly above her shop.

  Ava brightened. “But a free meal is always worth the effort, so thanks for the invite and here I am.”

  Woof.

  Poobah nudged Ava’s knee, signaling, Treat time, Auntie Ava.

  “I wouldn’t forget you, sweetie,” Ava said. She pulled a handful of dog treats out of her studded leather purse and bent to feed the two dogs. As she did so, her corset top gapped dangerously. “Oops, Auntie Ava almost had a wardrobe malfunction.” She bunched her top an inch higher, still offering a fine display of cleavage. “And Mimi, there you are, you little dickens. Get over here. I’ve got a treat for you, too.”

  “Wine?” Carmela asked.

  “That should definitely take the edge off. What a day, honestly!” Ava readjusted her purple corset and plopped down onto Carmela’s leather chaise lounge. She watched Carmela work the corkscrew. “Seems like every wacko beat a path to my shop today. But not a single one of them was a good-looking billionaire who was interested in my incense, talismans, or magic charms.” She fluffed her mass of dark hair. “Or my own personal charms.”

  Carmela handed her a glass that held two fingers of wine. “Try this.”

  Ava stopped her rant long enough to chugalug her wine. “Mmn. Bold taste for a rosé. Mama likes it. I’ll have some more, please.”

  Carmela promptly filled Ava’s glass.

  “Yes’m, everyone showed up to ask the same stupid questions without buying a thing. ‘Do you have candles that will raise the dead? Or at least figure out where dead Uncle Hughie buried his gold coins? Is there an incantation that can make a woman look thirty years younger right before she’s forced to meet her ex-husband’s new trophy wife?’ Seriously, cher, what the hell’s wrong with people? Is it too much trash TV? Social media? Or is something in the ozone?”

  “Come sit down for dinner and we’ll figure it out,” Carmela said. She carried out two avocado, tomato, and Vidalia onion salads and placed them on the table along with a basket of warm French bread and a pot of honey butter.

  Ava pushed herself off the chaise and sat down in a cane-backed chair. “Now this is what I call pure deliciosity. I can’t tell you how happy I am that my BFF is also a gourmet cook.” She held up her wineglass. “Cheers, baby.” Then, “How was your day? Any fallout from last night?”

  “Babcock stopped by Memory Mine this afternoon,” Carmela said.

  “To see how you were faring after last night or to warn you to back off his investigation?”

  “A little of both, actually.”

  “It’s not your fault you discovered poor Devon’s body last night. I mean, it’s terrible. I feel awful about it. But, honestly, when Babcock showed up, he acted as if we were trying to annoy him personally. When that wasn’t the case at all.”

  “He knows that,” Carmela said. “At least I think he does.”

  “The real litmus test is if the wedding is still on.” Ava chewed thoughtfully. “Is it?”

  “He’s been pushing me to set a date,” Carmela said.

  “Then you should set the date. What’s the holdup? You’re not getting cold feet, are you?”

  “Nooo.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Ava asked. “A man like that . . . ai, yi, yi. Such a great catch.”

  “Hold that thought,” Carmela said, “while I grab our entrées.”

  “Ye gadz, what do we have here?” Ava asked when Carmela set a plate in front of her. “Scallops? Be still my heart.” She dipped her fork in and sampled the wine sauce. “Your seasonings!” she raved. “They’re so fresh and perfect. Me, I’ve still got a can of paprika in my kitchen cupboard that’s so old Hungary was still a Communist country when it was packaged.”

  “I’m happy you’re enjoying dinner,” Carmela said.

  “Oh yeah. So. You were saying. About the wedding and everything.”

  “Well, there’s been a sort of monkey wrench thrown in where I didn’t expect it.”

  “How so?” Ava asked.

  “Guess who rented the empty space right next door to my shop.”

  “I don’t know. A donut shop? Tattoo parlor? I might want to get a rose or a dove or something on my hip. Or maybe my tush.”

  “Sorry, but you’re out of luck. The new tenant intends to open one of those
paint and sip shops.”

  Ava gestured with her fork. “I’ve heard about those. Where chicks get together to quaff wine while doing something creative like painting plates or small canvases.”

  “Well, they asked me to help with the crafty aspect,” Carmela said.

  “That sounds real nifty. You make a few extra bucks while you drive business to Memory Mine. Who’s the shop owner? Anybody we know?”

  “It’s Quigg.”

  Ava’s fork clattered to the table. “Quigg Brevard? That Quigg? Holy griddle cakes, Carmela, what did Babcock have to say about him being next door?”

  “I haven’t told him yet.”

  “Babcock’s going to burst a blood vessel when he finds out you’re going to be working with Quigg! He’s gonna have a full-blown thrombosis!”

  “But I don’t know if I am going to work with him. Right now it’s just an . . . idea. It’s out there spinning around in the ether.”

  “But you said Quigg signed a lease?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’s not just spinning, that sounds pretty darn solid, sweetie.”

  Carmela shrugged. “I guess.”

  “When are you going to break the news to Babcock?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Better fix him a gourmet dinner first. And get him liquored up, too.”

  Carmela took a sip of wine. “Yeah, well, there’s more I have to tell you. You remember that Vampire Society group we saw marching in the parade last night?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “The president of the society, Richard Drake, stopped by my shop today.”

  “Vampires are into scrapbooking now?”

  “No, but it was the weirdest thing. Customers were in and out all day, and when Drake arrived it was like, pouf! There he was. Like he just floated in and appeared somehow. I was a little creeped out.”

  “What’d this guy Drake want?”

  “Here’s where it gets weird. He wanted to know if I was one of Devon’s confidantes.”